


sunlight on a bed of dark roses

by feralphoenix



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Disabled Character, Implied Sexual Content, Other, Post-Canon, Spoilers - Pacifist Route
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 15:47:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5592058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feralphoenix/pseuds/feralphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An attempt was made. Chara has regrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sunlight on a bed of dark roses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [simplycarryon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplycarryon/gifts), [MiniNephthys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiniNephthys/gifts).



> _(Don’t take but a queen to make that kingdom come_ – The sweet scent, the humming, the light sweep of heat.)
> 
> this takes place when these three are in college together, but, uh, points at the tags above?? if sex having happened offscreen/some discussion of sexual subjects is not a thing you're comfortable with given these characters' ages during canon, this is not a thing you'll want to look at. stay safe my dudes
> 
> wrt the "disabled character" tag, chara has chronic pain (among various other mild-to-moderate chronic health issues) as a result of their poisoning. (additionally, frisk is severely photophobic/light-sensitive.)
> 
> extra warn for brief mention of menstruation/reference to suicide too i guess

You wake up alone, but with the bedcovers brought up over your shoulders in such a deliberate set that you know he stopped to tuck you back in before he left. There’s more blankets than you went to sleep under, surely; Asriel knows you like the pressure.

It’s—weird, you think. In a lot of ways: the sensation of being alone in a bed that’s usually got three people crammed into it, and is _supposed_ to have two at a time like this; that Asriel was able to cover you up without waking you at all; the tenderness of such a gesture. That you take comfort in your aloneness, too, but you can smell breakfast and hear clattering from downstairs, so it’s not like you don’t know where he’s gotten off to.

Just lying here is so nice that you want to close your eyes and go right back to sleep, a little. You’re achy, some, but it’s milder than the flaring in your knees and wrists and back on your worst days, so it doesn’t bother you much. You’re warm, too, and lying here with the mattress providing the right kind of pressure against your sore muscles and bruises feels wonderful. But you’re probably sweaty and gross and you ought to take a shower while that’s still a thing that occurs to you to do.

You roll over and pain like red hot metal sears all through the inside of your thigh, leaving you gasping and very, very awake.

 _“Fucking fuck,”_ you wheeze—mouth, mostly—and cringing all the way, you try to inch yourself upright so you can peel the covers off and take stock of the damage.

Those spikes of pain keep flashing every time you try to move your legs from side to side. There’s no visible wound, barely even any bruising, and poking at your skin doesn’t reveal anything broken, just overall tenderness along the muscle. Did you somehow manage to _pull_ it, that’s ridiculous, the girth of Asriel’s waist is substantial, okay, but _he’s not that big._ This is mortifying. Only you could somehow manage to hurt yourself like this.

And—okay, now that you’re up and trying to move around, that vague ache is getting a lot less vague. You kind of want to kick your past self for having taken a good look at Asriel last night and going _yes, this is totally reasonable and doable and I will not hate myself for this in the morning at ALL, and anyway if I do it will be future me’s problem then, #yolo!_ Not least because you and Asriel are both walking proof that “you only live once” is a load of crap and even resurrection can’t get you out of the consequences of your own actions. Holy _shit._ Everything sensitive from your waist down feels like one big bruise.

(There aren’t actually many marks, though—a tiny scratch here, a spot Asriel squeezed too hard there; all accidents. He let go and started to apologize every time he saw you wince; you’d just smiled and held his hands in yours and reminded him he didn’t choose to be born all pointy, and besides, you have a high pain tolerance. You didn’t mind a little manhandling, you joked, as long as it was from him. It felt good sometimes, to not be treated like you’re fragile.

 _Okay,_ Asriel had said, concern all over his face, _but still tell me if I’m really hurting you._

You grinned at him and said that you would.)

Ha. Ha ha ha. You’re an _idiot,_ Chara.

Just laying around here isn’t going to do anybody any favors, though. You—you’re pretty sure that you need to get up? Like—if you just lie around in bed forever whining about how it hurts, you’re just going to make Asriel feel bad, and none of this is his fault. This was _your_ brilliant idea.

You step on your phone getting up, and swear as you hobble over to the closet to get a clean binder. Ankle braces are important, too, but the pain is starting to make you feel vulnerable in a way you don’t like, so those can wait for a few moments more.

(It’d be nice if Asriel and Frisk would actually let you sleep in yours, but they’re both always all _noooo Chara you have to practice safe binding blah blah_ and so you don’t, in the name of keeping them happy.)

Bending down to put the braces on your feet _hurts,_ and you have to chew on your lip to stay silent, but this is better than sitting down would be, so. You can deal with it.

Swearing under your breath gets you to the bathroom and then back to throw yesterday’s outfit back on. Swearing in your head gets you down the stairs. You bite the inside of your cheek, trail one hand along the wall, and head across the hallway to the kitchen because if there’s anything that can give you the strength to face the rest of the day like this it’s caffeine.

“Chara?” says Asriel from the other side of the loft. “Oh gosh, you already woke up. I was going to bring you something to eat upstairs.”

You turn to him, or try, and make an effort to smile. He’s only got his pajama pants on; apparently he’s warm enough just in his own fur that he didn’t feel the need to get any more dressed than that. He’s still sleep-rumpled, his mane especially curling away in odd directions, but his eyes are bright and alert. Love wells up in you, powerful and soft and urgent; it eases the storm in your heart. You just wish it could be a panacea for your earthly pains too.

“Should’ve moved faster, sleepyhead,” you tease.

“Says the one who stayed in bed up until now,” he retorts, but it’s fond.

You nod, self-deprecating, and then wince.

“Are you okay?” Asriel asks, his smile giving way to concern.

“’M fine,” you lie valiantly. “Just a little stiff, that’s all.”

He doesn’t look altogether convinced. You guess he’s spent enough time around you to know better than to trust your _I’m fine_ s. Sometimes that’s a good thing; now, though, you wish he was still gullible enough to take you at your word.

“Well, don’t push yourself too hard,” is all he says, though.

“I won’t,” you tell him. You mean it for once, too.

It’s just a few more steps to the kitchen, and then a little further to get back to the table, and then you can _sit down and stop moving_ and maybe compose yourself a little, god.

You take one step, then another, and then there’s that familiar sensation like a fist clenching between the bones of your hips. Fire shoots up your lower back. You breathe in, sharp, and you _feel_ the blood drain from your face as your legs fold. The whole world narrows down to pain—there’s just so much of it; the cramps, your joints, your collection of bruises, everything inside you that’s still raw. Colorful spots dance across your vision, lingering when you close your eyes. Your breath has gone shallow. You wouldn’t be able to move even without the still-searing line of lightning that runs up the inside of your thigh, so: you curl up on top of your own legs, knees digging into your forehead.

“Chara? Oh my god,” Asriel says, and his big paws thump on the floor as he charges to your side. You make the hand that was still lying limp against the wall into feeble claws. “What’s wrong, is there anything I can do, should I call the campus clinic or Frisk or Mom or Dad or—”

You lift your other hand and try to flap it weakly in his direction to cut off his babbling; your fingers knock against his fur, and he folds your hand up in both of his own. The warm pads of his palms against your wrist makes your pulse skip and heat course through you; maybe an _interesting_ sensation given your physical state, but definitely one you prefer as its own separate experience.

“Cramps,” you grit out.

“Oh,” Asriel says, and frees one of his hands from around yours to settle it against the small of your back instead. If you could arch into the warmth of his touch you’d do it; as it is, you settle for sighing gratefully. You—usually take steps to make sure you’re well and truly drugged up against the pain beforehand when you know you’re going to get them, because otherwise they leave you like _this:_ A miserable and immobile pill bug.

When you haven’t said anything for a while, Asriel goes on. “This seems a little… early for cramps though?”

You’d get embarrassed that he knows this, but you really really had not wanted to try this while on your period _or_ with it looming over you, so you kind of didn’t have much choice but to bring it up. It was hard enough getting the loft to yourselves for one night without advertising your intentions to Frisk.

“It _is_ early,” you say. If your birth control pills aren’t doing what they’re supposed to, you are going to scream, for so many reasons. And thinking of other possible causes makes your ears start to burn.

“Come on,” he coaxes. “Let’s get you up to sit on the couch, that’ll be more comfortable than the floor.”

You fold your lip between your teeth and—with an effort—lay your palms against the hardwood floor to lever your upper body upright. Asriel reaches out to take you by the arms, half supporting you and half lifting, and you twist your waist too late: There goes your thigh again, and you bare your teeth and hiss as your expression contorts without your say-so.

“Breathe,” Asriel pleads, and you’re—trying, you are, but everything’s agony and you want to reach into yourself and pry out everything that hurts, and the intensity of the urge scares you. So you grit your teeth and wrench yourself around to sit up against him, knees together so your own muscles will stop trying to rip you apart.

Asriel is blessedly warm and solid, and you let yourself go limp against him, reeling into his chest and sighing, content, as he wraps you up in his arms.

“This seems awfully bad for just cramps,” he says, low, worried; it tears at your chest, and you shake your head against his shoulder to head him off.

“I think I probably just pulled a muscle,” you say, and slip your arms around his neck. He’s warm and soft and you feel so _revitalized_ pressed into his solid mass. _Oh,_ you think, and there it is, you’re smiling a little despite yourself. It was so stupid to be anxious about this, to start building it up into something bigger than it really is. Last night having been kind of awkward and kind of painful at times could never be enough to take the sense of comfort of Asriel’s arms away from you. “It’s not your fault.”

Tilting your face up and cracking one eye open shows you Asriel hissing in sympathy. “I’m still sorry,” he tells you. “I ought to’ve been more careful.”

“Come down here,” you say, and slide your hand up through his mane to hook your fingers around the base of his horn. The handhold makes it easier to pull him down to kiss his cheek without having to shift around too much so you could stretch up to meet him instead. “I’ll be okay. I was just trying to avoid having to bring it up because it’s embarrassing? Who manages to actually _pull_ something like this, I’m such a disaster.”

Asriel laughs a little at your weak joke. _“Chara.”_

“I’ll be fine if I can rest it for a little while,” you insist. “The couch sounds nice.”

He takes a breath, like knowing what to do is his lifeline. You play with the curls of his mane and let your cheek rest back against his shoulder. “Okay. I’ll get you medicine, and tea and breakfast. You can just relax for the day. …I’m real sorry, Chara. Even if you don’t want to blame me.”

You let yourself make a low whiny sound in protest. “No,” you say, and tighten your fists on his fur. “I want you to sit with me, Ree. Don’t put me down.”

“Chara,” he says, overly patient with this little note of amusement that kind of makes you want to grab his face in your hands and kiss him until he’s too lost in you to feel superior, “who’s going to take care of all the kitchen things and get you painkillers if you’re sitting on me?”

“If I have to pick between you and breakfast, I want you,” you tell him, and hug him tighter. He squeaks like he did when you were kids. “You can just warm it back up later, I’ll survive.”

He takes a breath like he’s going to argue back, but then there’s the sound of the door opening and both of you sort of flinch.

“Good morning,” Frisk says as they shut the door behind them. They take a moment to lock it, and then they turn back towards the pair of you. Their expression is obscured a bit by the smoky lenses of their glasses, and they take the things off with both hands, waving them with eyes mostly closed all the while as if that’s going to help them lighten any faster.

You could hear a pin drop while you and Asriel watch Frisk put their glasses back on. The only noise is the faint bubble of water boiling in the teakettle, and the beat of your heart in your ears as you wonder what your best friend thinks of your boyfriend kneeling on the floor with you curled up in his arms like a cat.

Frisk blinks once or twice. Their glasses were made to still be tinted just a bit even indoors, but even so they’ve said it’s hard for them to adjust at first. “Are you two okay down there?” they ask.

“We, uh,” Asriel says from above you.

“Good timing,” you go on when Asriel doesn’t say anything else. “Ree was going to get me over to the couch, could you take care of whatever he was messing with in the kitchen and go get my midol?”

“No problem,” they say, and smile.

“Sorry to push this on you when you just got back,” Asriel puts in. “I’m sure you must be tired after hanging out with MK all night…”

“I don’t mind,” Frisk replies. They brush past you both, headed for the kitchen. “I got plenty of rest, and I want to help.”

“You sit down too when you’re done, though, okay?” you call after their back, craning your neck to watch them without having to twist and risk the pain again. Frisk just flaps a hand at you, like _yeah, yeah._

“Hang on,” Asriel murmurs, and you settle back against him, tightening your grip on his shoulders and closing your eyes as he lifts you. In the dark behind your eyelids, the soft swaying as he rises to his feet and then begins to walk makes your insides swoop in a pleasantly nervy way. You don’t want to be anywhere else in the world.

Then the couch creaks beneath your combined weight, and Asriel shifts underneath you as he settles. It makes you remember the parts of last night that were actually pretty nice, and—it’s not _your_ fault that you’re turning red, okay, this is just how your complexion _is,_ you turn red at the drop of a hat. You tuck your face into his chest to not-really-but-okay-yeah-maybe-sort-of hide, and since it’s not like he can tell if you blush worse now anyway, you breathe in the smell of his fur. A comforting blend of sunshine, tea leaf, mild soap, and faint sweat; most of all, the flowers and fabric softener that you’ve always associated with him since you were kids. It’s the scent that means _safety_ to you, and always has. You could split at the seams, you love him so much.

Asriel plays with your hair while you think embarrassing things, and for a while there’s just the sounds of Frisk banging around the kitchen as a backdrop to your breathing and your heartbeats.

Then: “I guess we should’ve thought this through more, huh,” Asriel says, and he sounds so miserable that you extract your face from his chest to frown at him.

“You don’t have to feel bad,” you remind him. “This was _my_ idea.”

“You got hurt,” he goes on, unhappy. “And you’re—you were pushing yourself a lot just to get through it, weren’t you?”

Shrugging seems like the only reasonable response to this, so it’s what you do. “Maybe I did try a little too hard to tough it out,” you admit. “But that’s on me. If I’d asked you to stop, I know you would’ve. You _offered._ I was the one who said let’s keep going. I just—” You take a breath and chew on your lip a little, looking across the room to the light that filters through the curtains. “I don’t know. I wanted to try, at least, while we still can. If you grow much taller, it’s probably not going to work at all.” You sigh and let your head rest back against the warmth of him. “It wasn’t _all_ bad.”

He makes a squeaky sound low in his throat, and his embrace tightens around you; something happy and weightless bubbles up in you, and but for the cramps that still burn through your back, this feels almost the same as it did to be curled up in his arms afterward, last night: Soft and cuddly, too tired for embarrassment. Everything right with the world.

(Worry had slowly crept back in with the pain when that sense of peace wore off anyway, but. All the same. There’s something about Asriel that just sets you at ease.)

“Get down here,” you tell him, and cup the side of his face in one hand to coax him into your kiss.

There’s a quiet throat-clearing sound from behind you just then, and your soul practically comes leaping out of your chest. Asriel sits up straight in a hurry too, wide-eyed with embarrassment.

 _“Frisk,”_ you complain.

“You have to eat and take medicine,” they say innocently, sidling into your field of vision and planting their butt on the coffee table and holding a teacup and your medicine bottle out towards you. You take the medicine first, shaking a couple midol onto your palm and handing the bottle back to Frisk before you accept the teacup instead. They at least have the decency to wait until after you’ve swallowed the pills before they add, “I’m not sure you two ought to be getting too, uh, _enthusiastic_ just yet after last night anyway.”

You very nearly spit your tea all over them, and end up choking on it instead. Asriel rubs your back with a shaky hand while squawking at them, “How—why—”

Frisk gives you a pitying look, or tries to; they’re grinning at the same time, which kind of ruins it. You very carefully don’t throw your cup at them, because the tea’s still hot and you don’t want to burn them—but that leaves you at a loss to what to do with the damn thing, so you swallow the rest of it in one angry gulp. Maybe it will at least make you stop coughing. (It only helps a little bit.)

“Maybe if you wanted to keep it a secret, you shouldn’t have bombarded me with panicked text messages as soon as you each thought you were the only one awake?” they suggest.

You swivel around to look at Asriel, who’s staring at you with the same abashed startlement you bet is written across your own features. Your ears start to get hot, and you turn away again _very very quickly._ His ear smacks you in the back of the head; he’s avoiding your gaze too.

“Yeah, you guys really blew up my inbox,” Frisk goes on, nonchalant. “It was actually a little bit cute? Cuter now that things are settled and I know you’re both okay, of course.”

“Oh my god,” you say, and hide your face in your hands. “Oh my _god,”_ you repeat, muffled into your scarred-up palms this time.

“If you ever want the loft to yourselves again,” Frisk says, and you’d throw something at them after all but they’re really really gentle about it, “you can just tell me straight out, okay? I don’t want to step on your toes if you’re not comfortable with me being around while you’re… y’know.”

You would _very much_ like to reply to this, but you’re not sure whether to say _thanks I appreciate it_ or _wow fuck you_ so you just breathe out noisily. You suppose that you ought to be grateful that Frisk was there for you—and Asriel too—when you were too anxious to turn to anyone else. After all, they were right: It’s the morning, and your body might hate you for your stubbornness, but Asriel doesn’t.

“Anyway, I’m going to go finish getting breakfast ready,” Frisk goes on. “I’ll leave you two alone for a little while, okay?”

“Yeah, we—yeah,” is all Asriel manages to say. You pull your hands away from your face to stare sideways at Frisk, in time for them to lean in and kiss your forehead: Warm and bracing. Their hair smells like petrichor and fallen leaves.

They shift to cup your face in their hands and press your foreheads together, and you close your eyes and lean into their touch. Then they release you, and do the same with Asriel over the top of your head. They smile for you both, and trot back into the kitchen. You turn your head a little to watch them go.

“That,” says Asriel at length, “that sure was a thing.”

You groan and hide your face against him again, petulant. “It’s a good thing I can’t fucking move right now, because I kinda want to go find another hole and fling myself into it.”

“Chara,” he says, and his arms come up to squeeze you again, solid, protective. He’s not the biggest fan of your morbid humor, but then you guess that’s probably fair enough.

So you sigh. “Sorry, Ree,” you tell him, unburying yourself from the fur of his chest enough to peek up at him with one eye. “I just feel really stupid about… a lot of stuff, I guess.”

“That’s okay,” he says. “I do too.”

You sit together in silence for a while. Whether it’s thanks to the medicine or to sitting curled up in your warm boyfriend’s lap, you think your back is starting to hurt a little less. Even with the embarrassment and your piece of shit body to put a damper on things, you’re about as at peace with the world as you ever are: You and Asriel and Frisk; here, safe, free, making it from one day to the next.

“Asriel?” you say, and the blush creeps back into your face even as his name leaves your lips, but you look up at him anyway, and he gazes back down at you seriously. “Not—right away or anything, but—I’d be okay with—with trying this again, if you still want to. Trying to figure out what we’re doing a little more, find something that… that works better for both of us.” Your voice has dwindled to a mumble, and you reach up to wind a tuft of your hair around your forefinger. You’re so _aware_ of him. His lungs shifting under your side, his heartbeat against your shoulder, the circle of his arms, the softness of his fur, his damned blessed body heat. “If we decide that this is something we want to… to put work into, I think it’d be worth the work. I’d be willing, if you are.”

“Okay,” he replies, soft, serious, tender. “I think I want to—think about that a little more, maybe. And talk about it when, uh, Frisk isn’t in the other room so we don’t have to talk around it instead of actually _about_ it.”

“That sounds like an utterly pointless endeavor, honestly, because we can’t keep a fucking secret from Frisk to save the remains of our dignity, apparently?” you say, starting to laugh. Asriel grins back down at you, lips pulling off his fangs in a way that probably shouldn’t be sending as many nice shivers up your spine as it does. “But yeah. Some other time, maybe.”

You wait a while just to enjoy watching Asriel while he laughs. His profile, the way he gets little crinkles along his muzzle while he snickers, his narrowed eyes and his ears flopping down to frame his face—he’s beautiful, in this soft midmorning light.

“But, anyway,” you say, when he calms down: “Anyway. I also… I want you to know that if we decide it’s not working? This is enough for me. Just—” and you raise a hand to gesture around the room, futilely trying to encompass everything there is to the life you now share— _“this.”_ And you press yourself as close to him as you can, cheek up against his heart, braiding your fingers through his fur. “This is what’s most important to me.”

“Chara,” Asriel says, soft, warm. Just your name, but he makes it sound like a treasure. “That’s good to know. I think so too.”

You sigh, and close your eyes as you smile. That makes you feel a lot better to hear.


End file.
